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The Morning Is a Wing
by Joannie Stangeland

When she sleeps, she is rowing.
Light washes like water.

The water plays light
and green. The wind washes her

in spring. The wind plays light,
a taste of apricot.

A mallard glides onto the lake,
settles with a flutter, splash.

The morning is a wing.
Oars feather the water's sky.

The sunrise lasts for hours.
She sleeps through the night.


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